There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it-it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
Strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.
A multitude of small delights constitute happiness
Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.
The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.
What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?
One can only forget about time by making use of it.
There is no sweeter pleasure than to surprise a man by giving him more than he hopes for.
Nothing can be done except little by little.
To dream magnificently is not a gift given to all men, and even for those who possess it, it runs a strong risk of being progressively diminished by the ever-growing dissipation of modern life and by the restlessness engendered by material progress. The ability to dream is a divine and mysterious ability; because it is through dreams that man communicates with the shadowy world which surrounds him. But this power needs solitude to develop freely; the more one concentrates, the more one is likely to dream fully, deeply.
I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart.
Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.
There are some temptations which are so strong that they must be virtues.
Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recaptured at will.
The world progresses only through misunderstanding.
A silent mouth is sweet to hear.
Remembering is only a new form of suffering.
What is love? The need of coming out of one's self.
Whether you come from heaven or hell, what does it matter, O Beauty!
The Poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the tempest and laughs at the archer. Exiled on the ground in the midst of the jeering crowd, his giant's wings keep him from walking.
What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.
God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.
Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
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